


Ber/kano

by IgnisAlis



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Come Swallowing, Deaf Clint Barton, Deaf/HOH character, Disordered Eating, Knifeplay, M/M, Nightmares, Norse Rune Symbolism, Not Avengers:AOU Compliant, Oral Sex, PTSD, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Scarification, Shibari, Shooting Competition, not ca:cw compliant, sniper bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7937539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnisAlis/pseuds/IgnisAlis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky needs to feel he can be in control of himself. Clint needs to remember how to let go. They both need to learn how to trust again.</p><p>This is a series of scenes chronicling their deepening relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ber/Kano

**Author's Note:**

> Also includes very brief mentions of (past): Body Horror, Medical Torture, Mind Control, Poor BDSM Etiquette, Prosthesis-related Dysphoria, Prostitution, Torture
> 
> Thanks to Xombiehamster, Teratornis, Dr. Jekyll, and the other RL friends who helped edit this! You know who you are, if you declined to be credited for your efforts reading & commenting.  
> Concrit is loved! 
> 
> Chapter 2 is my research notes & sources. Don't know if that's of interest to anyone or not, so I'm including them this time.

  Two months after Clint finally moved into the tower, Steve returned with a brainwashed assassin in tow. Turned out the legendary Russian assassin Winter Soldier was actually a brainwashed version of Bucky Barnes, US Army sniper from Brooklyn. Go figure.

  Clint didn't interact with him, really, just watched. Actually, no one interacted with Barnes much, other than Steve. Barnes flinched at sudden movements like he expected them to hit him at any moment. He picked at his food like he didn't know what it was for. Some nights he'd stalk through the common areas, checking that everything was secure; other nights he'd skitter in, shaking, and curl up under a blanket. Those times he'd just stare unblinking at the city lights or at whatever happened to be on TV.  
  Clint saw him a lot of those nights; he had nightmares of his own, and if he could sleep uninterrupted through the entire night twice a week, he counted himself lucky.

  One especially bad night, Clint had woken at 3am trying to choke back a scream. He laid in bed a while, trying to relax enough to go back to sleep, but thirty minutes was enough to tell him that it was futile. He sighed, the bone-deep ache of exhaustion in his back a mocking reminder of just how sleep deprived he was these days. He levered himself out of bed and headed to the common areas.  
  Barnes was already on the couch, wrapped in a plush blue blanket and staring into the distance with unfocused eyes. Clint nodded as he went by, a little surprised that Barnes didn't nod back. That was pretty much their only direct communication, but they were consistent about it. Must be a bad night for him, too.

  Clint poured milk into a saucepan to heat. He was in the mood for hot chocolate, and as fantastic as some of the mixes were, they couldn't compare with the homemade stuff. On a whim, he added more milk. He might as well make Barnes a mug, too. That would at least give him something warm to hold, whether he drank it or not.  
  A few weeks of observation had taught him that Barnes was weird about food. Drinks seemed to be the easiest way to get calories down him; he'd down a 1000-calorie shake in a few minutes, but he'd pick at solid food. He seemed to eat things like granola bars and pop-tarts fairly well, anything quick and prepackaged, which made Clint think murderous thoughts about how his former keepers had fed him. Clint had stocked up on meal replacement bars after he figured that out, casually offering one the next time he grabbed himself a snack from the kitchen.  
  Clint sympathized with Barnes' silent struggle; he had his own food issues. He'd never had enough growing up, and still struggled to moderate the urges to eat too fast and to hoard food, especially when he was stressed.  
  He shook his head, carefully pouring the contents of the saucepan into two mugs.

  He held out a steaming mug, heaped with tiny marshmallows, and Bucky blinked at him. Bucky's eyes flicked back and forth, from the mug to Clint and back. He hesitantly took the mug, nodding his thanks.  
  Clint perched on the other end of the couch, grabbing an additional blanket and burying himself in a warm blanket nest. The tower was always a nice, even temperature, but something about the icy temperatures outside made him want to huddle under something warm.

 

  He saw Bucky's lips move out of the corner of his eye, accompanied by a muffled wash of sounds, and frowned. “I didn't catch that, sorry. I'm mostly deaf, and I don't have my hearing aids in.” He could pick out a lot if he was watching, and infer a lot of what he missed from context, but it could still be an endless exercise in frustration.  
  Bucky's lips shaped a surprised 'oh'. He hesitantly pointed at his mug, then gave a thumbs up.  
  Clint laughed. “Thanks. I can read lips, too, if you're okay with repeating yourself some.”  
  Bucky's eyes flicked up. “JARVIS says he can project what we say, if you like.”  
  “Huh. Cool. Thanks, JARVIS.” He wished he'd known that prior to some of the team dinners. They were great, but it was exhausting trying to follow what was said. He wouldn't want to depend on JARVIS too much, but it would be nice to have an option beyond 'ask people to repeat themselves' and 'pretend he understood what was being discussed, despite missing a quarter of the words'.  
  “...Wait. Does this mean that you've been missing half of all the shit movies we've sat through?!”  
  Clint caught most of that, but it was scrolling across the wall just as JARVIS had promised. He burst out laughing and nodded. “I didn't think you were actually paying attention! Besides, Sharktopus is quality cinema.”  
  Bucky rolled his eyes. “Then clearly the meaning of 'quality' has changed over the last several decades.”  
  Clint snorted. “Nah, you just have no taste in good cinema.”  
  “Oh, so the meaning of 'good' has changed, too.”  
  “Yep. When I say 'good morning', really I mean 'fuck you, give me coffee'.”  
  “And when you say, 'fuck you, give me coffee'?”  
  “Oh, that means the same thing,” Clint said airily. “You're just closer to getting stabbed if you approach me without offering any.”

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  “Boooooored,” Clint groaned, staring at the bemused Bucky as he walked closer. It was weird seeing him from this angle.  
  “What are you _doing?_ ” For once, the end of Bucky’s question didn’t make it sound like a statement. Apparently baffling him led to better emotional expression, who knew?  
  “I'm booored,” Clint whined, lifting his head only to let it thump against the couch. His back was laying on a cushion, feet flung up over the back of the couch. He was wearing only boxers and a threadbare T-shirt.  
  “Why are you sitting like that. No, you know what, never mind, I already know that the answer will only confuse me more. And how are you bored. This is New York. There's always shit to do, even on Sunday.”  
  Clint just groaned.  
  “Come on. Up, get dressed. We're going to Central Park. I'll buy ya a hot dog.” He reached under Clint's head, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him bodily off the couch. Bucky was briefly concerned for the structural integrity of the shirt, but miraculously, the fabric held. Clint flailed and yelped as he hit the floor. “Hey, no dragging! Let go!”  
  Bucky let go, and Clint barely managed to avoid hitting his head on the floor. He resettled his BTE hearing aids, and levered himself upright. “Fiiiiiine. Be right back.”  
  Bucky watched him go, irrationally amused. (That was a vast improvement over his early weeks at the tower, where irrationally angry, irrationally homicidal, and irrationally depressed had all played large parts in his day-to-day attitude.) He glanced down at himself. Had to cover the arm, jacket necessary. Footwear, weapons, wallet necessary. Estimated completion time eight minutes.

  Bucky was ready and waiting for Clint in less than ten minutes, and smiled to himself. His psychologist was trying to work with him regarding his mission-based outlook on life, and they'd concluded that self-assigned missions were fine, and an acceptable part of the recovery process. It always gave him a little rush of happiness to complete a task he had assigned himself.  
  Clint stepped off the elevator, interrupting that thought process. He was dressed in blue jeans and a purple shirt with a thin jacket, and was holding a pair of sunglasses. Clint grinned broadly when he saw Bucky, and the expression made his stomach flutter oddly. Perhaps he was hungry; he still wasn't good at identifying the sensation, but they would be eating soon.

 

  Clint wiped the last of the mustard off his hands with a napkin, and shoved his sunglasses back up his nose. “Okay, the hot dog was worth getting dressed.”  
  “Not bored anymore, either, are ya?”  
  “...No,” Clint admitted. Most of that was Bucky's presence, though he wouldn't admit it aloud. “Where to now?”  
  Bucky shrugged, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Dunno. Want to just walk.”  
  “Why not? Nothing better to do, and the company's good.” The weather was nice; April had brought slightly warmer temperatures. It was a nice change after the awful winter they’d had.  
  Bucky flashed him a breathtaking smile, and Clint would swear his heart staggered in his chest. Goddamn it, why did he always fall for the straight ones?

 

  They wandered for a few hours, swapping stories about the city. They hopped on the subway a few times, heading to Brooklyn for Bucky to reminisce. Bucky didn't seem as shaken as Steve had, when he realized how little was left that he recalled.  
  “I knew time was passing,” he said, when Clint asked. “I'm more surprised that there's anything left at all.”  
  “Come on, let's head east. I know a diner.” Clint led him into Bedford-Stuyvesant, detouring to point out his apartment building. “Had to fight a whole damn mafia of Russian tracksuit Draculas to keep the place,” he said as they passed, and started laughing at the look on Bucky's face. “I miss it,” he admitted. “I mean, it's kind of a dump, even with what I was able to fix up. My apartment was tiny and kinda shitty. Really shitty, compared to my place at the tower. But I still miss living there.” It was being well managed, and he stopped by occasionally to check in, but it wasn't the same.  
  Bucky nodded. “I understand.”  
  Clint thought he did, surprisingly enough. “Anyway, enough of that. Diner's a couple blocks from here.” He'd mostly lived on Chinese takeout and pizza, but the diner made really amazing burgers, pie, and milkshakes.

 

  The little bell chimed when they walked in, and Sarah greeted him with a wave. “Long time, no see! Did ya get too famous for us, up in that Tower?”  
  Clint snorted. “Well, I thought about it, but then I realized that you still have the best pie in the state. And here I am, hat in hand, forlornly begging for a good meal...” He feigned puppy-dog eyes, lower lip thrust out in a pout.  
  Sarah laughed, smacking him in the shoulder with the menus. “Yeah, yeah.” She finally seemed to notice Bucky. “Oh, you brought a friend! Sit. I'll bring you coffee.”

  Bucky looked a little shell-shocked by the time Sarah walked away, and he only looked more daunted when he picked up the menu. Bucky was overwhelmed sometimes, by the many options available, and Clint was pretty sure that was happening here.  
  “Okay, their best meals are burgers and chicken-fried steak. All their pie is amazing, if you want to skip straight to dessert. And their milkshakes rock.”  
  The tension in Bucky's shoulders eased a little, and it only took him a minute to pick flavors. “Chicken-fried steak, apple pie, and a cookies and cream milkshake.”  
  “Awesome. Cheeseburger for me, I think, and a peanut butter milkshake. Not sure about pie yet, I'll decide after the burger.”  
  They ate and chatted, spending almost two hours in the diner.

 

  It was almost 8:45 when they reached Kingston station. They caught the 3 train across the river and back to Manhattan, coming out only a few blocks from the tower.  
  “I had a great time,” Clint said. “Thanks for dragging me out of the tower.”  
  Bucky shrugged. “You're not the only one who gets stir-crazy.” Bucky looked at the floor numbers scrolling past. “Say so--thi-- anyti--, we'll make a da-- of it.”  
  Clint blinked. Did he say 'day' or 'date'? Bucky had been great all day about facing him while they talked, and he was thrown by the sudden change. Before he could figure out how to ask for clarification, Bucky was exiting to his floor with a little wave.

 

>>>──♥───>

  There was some sort of special on television about the top rifles of WWII. Since Clint had an actual sniper from WWII sitting next to him, he muted the television and asked. “So, what all did you shoot, back in you and Steve's day?”  
  Bucky snorted. “Might be better to ask what I didn't shoot. Uh. '41 Johnson and 1903 Springfield. M1 Garand, M1 Carbine. We ranged all over Europe, so beyond that, I mostly shot whatever the locals had. Used a Lee-Enfield a few times, those were nice. Oh, Mosin-Nagant, in… was that Poland… not like it matters, I guess. Anyway. Oh, the Karabiner 98k. A Lebel, that thing sucked, I ditched it as quick as I could. Uh. What else. Oh, came across a K31 once, how could I forget, that thing was a dream.”  
  “So what's your favorite?”  
  Bucky bit his lip, considering. “Probably the Springfield. The K31 was amazing. Kicked like hell, but sweet iron sights and amazingly accurate. But I still have a lot of fondness for the Springfield. I did a lot with that rifle.”  
  Clint nodded. “Good choices. Springfield’s a classic. And the K31 is still used; someone broke a distance record with it a few years ago.” He shrugged. “I mostly wind up using M24s or M40s, since SHIELD and most local stations have them. I’m a good shot with a rifle, but mostly I use a bow when I’m allowed.”  
  “A bow.”  
  “Yep.”  
  “...Does it still count as sniping if you’re only 50 meters away?”  
  Clint snorted. “Fuck you, try 200, city boy. And I know most sniper shots back in you and Steve’s war were less than that. So don’t try to bullshit me about long ranges.”  
  “That sounds like a challenge.”  
  Clint grinned at him. “Bring it.”  
  They set a day the coming week to drive down to a range in Jersey that Clint was a member of. That would put them safely after any spring break crowds, and going mid-week should mean the range was even less crowded. “Don’t make that face,” he protested. “It may be in Jersey, but it’s pretty nice. And do you know how tough it is to find a range that has anything over 200 yards for rifle? Let alone one that will let me fuck around with a bow on what’s supposed to be a rifle range?”  
  Bucky conceded, though somewhat grudgingly. 

  Bucky woke at 7am that Wednesday, efficiently showering and retrieving the Springfield from the armory downstairs. At 7:15am, while he was contemplating breakfast in the common area, it belatedly occurred to him that Clint had not confirmed a departure time.  
  Mission planning failure. Bucky winced. “JARVIS? Did Clint set an alarm?”  
  “No. However, he did confirm with me last night that his doorbell was connected to the shaker alarm on his bed, so I believe he expected you to wake him whenever you wished.”

  After shaking Clint out of bed for a small breakfast (that Clint seemed to eat while mostly asleep) and coffee (that Clint drank straight out of the pot, while Bucky clutched the cup he’d thankfully already poured), they put their weapon cases in the back of one of Tony’s many cars and hit the road.  
Once they were out of the city, the drive was quiet. They made it to the range before 9am.  
  Clint tapped in his code at the gate and parked. The lot was nearly empty; only two other cars were present, and Clint could hear at least one person firing a shotgun on the skeet range. He led Bucky to the clubhouse to sign in, then they fetched their gear from the car. Clint left his hearing aids in the car; the ear protection didn’t fit well over the BTEs, and it was unlikely they’d be talking extensively anyway.

  Bucky was pleasantly surprised by the facility. The property was laid out in a U shape, with parking lots in the middle, a skeet range on one side, a series of 50-yard ranges on the other side, and longer ranges at the bottom. They’d gone to the longer ranges. Clint led the way to the 200 yard general rifle range in the middle, but he could see a 300 yard high-power range to their left, and a shorter pistol range to their right. The range itself had small berms, indicating the 100 yard and 50 yard lines.  
  As they’d hoped, no one else was on the range. “I’ll shoot first, if you don’t mind,” Clint said. “I’ve got standing permission to use this range for archery, but only if other members aren’t using it for rifles, since it’s easier if I stand in front of the benches.”  
  Bucky shrugged. At Clint’s request, he carried the dense foam target to the far end of the range and set it up. He set up two of his own at the same time, on a wooden frame one lane over. He tied a small streamer of surveyor’s tape to one of the frame uprights; it might not be an ideal wind gauge, but it was better than nothing.  
  Bucky started his walk back, squinting against the sun to see what Clint was doing at the covered benches. He seemed to be checking over his bow. Bucky amused himself by considering what angry words a range safety officer might say about him handling the bow with someone downrange. Unlike a firearm, at least, it was impossible to have an accidental discharge from a bow without nocking an arrow.

  “Awesome. Get behind the line, and I’ll show you what I can do.” Clint seemed to light up with his bow in his hands, in a way Bucky hadn’t seen before. He liked this smile on Clint; it seemed a little more relaxed than his usual grin.  
  Clint drew an arrow from his quiver. His breathing changed, getting slower and deeper. Bucky had never seen him so focused, and was watching Clint’s face so closely that he missed the moment of release.  
  Bucky tried to focus on the distant target. The arrow was certainly close to the center, though he couldn’t tell the details from this far away.  
  Clint fired eleven more arrows, making an even dozen clustered in the middle of the target. He lowered his bow, and turned back to look at Bucky with a broad grin. “Want to go look, or you want to shoot and then compare after?”  
  Bucky faced Clint squarely, so he could lip-read. “Let me shoot a few rounds, to check accuracy. Then let’s look.”  
  Clint nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Bucky blinked when he peered through the scope, leaning to check the side. He was expecting an old Weaver 2.5x scope like he remembered, but this was at least a 10x, with amazing clarity. There were no manufacturer’s marks on the side; perhaps Stark had made it? No loss on the Weaver, though; the damned thing had always been fogging up on him.

  The Springfield shot like a dream, just as well as he remembered. The smell of the old wooden stock, steel, and cosmoline took him back like nothing else had.  
  Two clips’ worth flew by. Bucky laid the rifle down, bolt open, and turned to face Clint. “Better scope than I expected. Let me shoot more, then we’ll look.”  
  Clint nodded, handing over four loaded clips. 

  The morning passed quickly. They traded off shooting the Springfield. To Bucky’s surprise, his accuracy with it was nearly matched by Clint’s accuracy with his bow. And (wounding his pride a little) Clint was better with the rifle than Bucky was.  
  Clint shrugged when he brought it up later in the car. “You were a soldier first, sniper as needed. Sniper is all I am, on almost every mission for the last several years. You’re good, you just haven’t had nearly the amount of practice that I have. And I can already tell you, you’d kick my ass in about ten seconds in hand-to-hand.”  
  Bucky considered that, pretending to look him over. “Nah. Seven. Maybe eight. Not ten.”  
  Clint laughed. “Fuck you too.”

  They took the Garden State Parkway back, instead of the Tollway, hoping to find somewhere to stop for lunch, since the Tollway was a barren wasteland with few exits. They were both hungry by the time Bucky spotted a sign for a restaurant claiming to serve the best BBQ in Jersey.  
Clint lifted his eyebrows, and Bucky shrugged. “Sure.”

  They hit the road again after a leisurely meal (agreeing that it might be the best BBQ in the state, but that they’d both had better in Texas). They arrived back at Avengers Tower in early afternoon.  
  “Thank you. I had a good time.” The chance to shoot had left Bucky feeling calm and mellow, and he had enjoyed Clint’s company.  
  Clint gave him a thumbs up. “Me too. Any time.” He vanished into his apartment.  
  Bucky took the Springfield back to his apartment to clean and go over in detail. He was determined to find out if it belonged to Stark specifically, or if it was one of the many weapons he owned but allowed anyone to claim. If it was up for grabs, he wanted it.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Bucky was frowning at the TV, talking about the pride parade the coming weekend. “Pride parade? Proud about what?”  
  Clint responded absently, most of his attention on acquiring coffee. “Uh, being queer. Y'know, homosexual, men who like men or women who like women, bisexual people who like both, asexual people who like no one, and there's a shitload of smaller groups but I'm too tired to remember 'em all, why?” The long silence after that made him pay attention.  
  “That's legal? Being… temperamental?”  
  Clint blinked at him. “I think I misheard that last bit? But yeah, it's legal.” Shit. Had Bucky not gotten the same 'welcome to the future' orientation as Steve? He thought they'd mentioned it, but maybe not.  
  “You said bisexual is liking men and women?”  
  “Yeah. Can also be called pansexual, there's a whole… thing.” Clint wished he had consumed more caffeine prior to this conversation. He took a gulp to speed the process along. He scalded his tongue, but it didn't make him noticeably more alert.  
  “That's, um.” Bucky's voice was very small. “That's how I am.”  
  “Ah. Congrats?” Clint debated how to respond. “I'm gay.” This was the problem with learning etiquette by rote as an adult; new situations were tough. And his grasp of social cues was kinda shaky anyway. That seemed to be good enough, though, based on how Bucky's shoulders relaxed.  
Then the information sank in. If Bucky wasn’t straight, did his crush have a chance of going somewhere?  
  Nah, he was shit at relationships, and there was the whole issue of kink. Probably better to just leave it alone, and hope the attraction faded on its own.

 

  Bucky had watched the TV coverage of the parade a little wistfully, but shook his head when asked if he wanted to go. “Can’t cover the arm, too hot out, and I wouldn’t do well with the crowd.”  
  Clint nodded. He didn’t want to deal with the late June heat at all, let alone with long sleeves on. 

 

  Bucky had abandoned his history reading for the week in favor of research on the gay rights movement. Clint had watched him plow steadily through a thick textbook over the course of the day. Bucky finally closed it, staring into space.  
  “So what do you think about all this?”  
  “Hmm?”  
  “All the changes?”  
  Bucky turned to face him. “It's… really nice. Not having to worry about being arrested. Me an' Stevie grew up in Brooklyn Heights, pretty close to some gay bars. Hell, we were only a couple blocks from St. George's, and everyone knew what went on there. And I worked at the docks. Not like either of us were oblivious to what went on, ya know?”  
  “Huh. Cap has conveniently left that bit out of his nostalgic storytelling.”  
  Bucky shrugged. “Not surprised. It… wasn't something that was talked about much, you know? It was dangerous. But everyone knew.” He licked his lips. “I knew guys who were arrested. After Prohibition was repealed, around '34, '35, cops started cracking down more. The raids picked up, and going to any of those places got a lot more dangerous.”  
  Clint nodded. He wondered if Bucky had ever dated any guys then, but wasn't sure how to ask.  
  “Other thing Stevie won't tell you is the number of times he got propositioned. We were awfully close to the Navy yard, and he was a skinny little shit with a pretty mouth, so it happened a lot.” Bucky's mouth twisted. “Not often to me, but… money was never quite tight enough that I had to go suck cock to pay for Stevie's meds, but I considered it a time or two.”  
  “Does Steve know?”  
  “No, thank Christ. And don't you fuckin' tell him, either.” Bucky suddenly shot him a fierce look.  
  “I won't. Wouldn't, without permission. That's yours to tell.”

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Clint knocked on Bucky’s door and waited. JARVIS flashed the light beside the doorbell, relaying Bucky’s invitation to enter.  
Bucky was emerging from the bedroom, and waved for him to sit. “Beer?”  
  “Sure.”  
  Settled on the couch with beer, Clint finally spoke. “So I hear Steve got his foot stuck in his mouth earlier.”  
  Bucky snorted. “He was trying to help, he's just shit at it.”  
  “I only heard his explanation, which seems to be that he thinks the arm is beautiful and great and way better than no arm at all. Tony and I did our best to explain why we thought he needed a crowbar to remove his foot. God knows how it slipped his mind that there was a world of consent between what was done to him and what was done to you.”  
  Bucky shrugged, then winced. “He knows there was experimentation and torture, but that’s all. I never told him the details. I don’t think he could handle it well.” Bucky absently rubbed the join where flesh met metal. He noticed Clint watching, and let go. “Aches,” he explained. “Storm coming.”  
  Clint nodded. He didn’t have much pain yet, but he’d broken enough bones and damaged enough joints that it was only a matter of time. “Tony would probably be happy to build you another arm,” he said carefully. “One where you had some design input.”  
  Bucky’s hand crept back up to his shoulder, rubbing at the muscles near the join. “He’s talked to me about it, about either replacing it or making a flesh toned sleeve that I could wear. I’m not sure, though. I feel like everyone’s trying to fix it to make me normal. I’ll never be _normal_ again. I just hate people staring.”  
  “Yeah, I know how that goes.”  
  Bucky raised his eyebrows, a silent inquiry.  
  Clint tapped his BTEs. “I was… in a car accident when I was a kid. Went to an orphanage right after. They thought I was being sullen and disobedient. Which I was, some, but I was also missing a lot of what people were saying.” His jaw clenched. “I didn’t get these till I joined SHIELD, and by then I was really fucking tired of pretending.”  
  “Yeah, I get that.” Bucky sighed. “And… I love Steve, but he expects me to be the Bucky he used to know. And I’m not.” He started massaging his trapezius, tipping his head down for a moment. “--like spending time with you. You don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.”  
  Clint raised his beer. “Fuck ‘em, be yourself.”  
  Bucky clinked his bottle against Clint’s, and they both drank.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Clint tried to remember the phrasing Bucky had used. ‘I like spending time with you.’ Clint shuddered, eyes fluttering shut. Jesus, he needed to get laid. He shouldn't be in here jerking off to thoughts of his friend.  
  “Gimme your wrists,” he imagined Bucky ordering.  
  Clint let go of his cock for a moment, letting the fantasy wash over him. He would offer Bucky his wrists, and Bucky would bind them. Leather cuffs, maybe, or rope. Either way, his wrists would be secured to the headboard. Thus helpless, Clint would wait, Bucky staring down at him.  
  Maybe… maybe…  
  Clint gave in to the urge to touch himself, working his cock in hard, fast strokes. Maybe Bucky would jack him off, roughly. Maybe the handjob would be all he'd get. Clint came with a groan. He stared at the ceiling, still imagining. Or maybe Bucky would fuck him, after. It was too hard to even imagine Bucky being willing to hurt him, so Clint flicked right past that part of the fantasy. Maybe Bucky would spend the night, cuddled up against him.  
Clint sighed, wiping himself off with a tissue and tossing it into the trash across the room. Maybe he should quit being a creepy piece of shit fantasizing about one of his closest friends, and go out and get laid for real. He slapped his hand down on the remote for the lights, unreasonably pissed at himself and unable to spell out why.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  The Avengers gathered for the first movie night of September. As usual, they'd arranged for the Fantastic Four to be on-call, so Tony was lining up bottles of alcohol. Two extra folding tables were set up, and there were two roombas bouncing around the room.  
  “...Okay,” Clint said, after staring a moment. “Why the roombas?”  
  Tony bounced over, holding out his phone. “Beer pong for the snipers! The handicap is adding roombas.”  
  Clint blinked at the [gif](http://imgur.com/gallery/hMda9Is). He mutely held the phone out to Bucky. Bucky stared at the phone, then looked up at Tony. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head.  
  “We can't just have a handicap?”  
  Tony snorted. “We gave Clint a handicap last time. He still beat the pants off of everyone. Literally, once we got drunk enough to start playing strip beer pong. So this time, you get a handicap AND roombas.”  
  Bucky just stared. Finally, he turned to Clint. “Who lost the strip beer pong?”  
  “Steve.”  
  Bucky blinked at him. “...Steve. Steve, who can't get drunk.”  
  “Apparently if he spikes his drink with Asgardian liquor, he can. It was news to all of us. Especially him.”  
  “...Wow.”  
  “Yeah, whatever you're imagining, I promise, it was even funnier. There's footage.”  
  “Viewing party, after this?”  
  Clint nodded. “It's a date.” He headed off to see what sort of absurdly fancy alcohol Tony had bought this time, completely missing Bucky's thoughtful expression.

 

  Apparently Thor's Asgardian liquor worked on Bucky's knock-off serum as well as it did on Steve's. Bucky was hilariously chatty, compared to his usual laconic self.  
  “Bucky, you're drunk.”  
  “No I'm not! _You're_ drunk.”  
  “I am not drunk.” Steve enunciated clearly. Clint was pretty sure they were both well on their way to being totally plastered, but it was too hilarious an argument to interrupt. They were like kids. Really big, serum-enhanced kids.  
  “You are! You just don't want to admit it. Stubborn little shit.”  
  “Not so little these days, Buck.”  
  Bucky snorted. “Don't care how big you are. You're still a stubborn little shit. You'll always be a stubborn little shit.”  
  “I am not!”  
  Natasha was hiding a smile behind her drink. “How stubborn? I think we need stories.”  
  “He is!” Bucky's attention shifted to her. “Хоть кол на голове теши!”  
  Clint couldn't make out any of Bucky's words. He glanced at the camera in the corner and raised his eyebrows. JARVIS put up subtitles for him. [Russian idiom] Literal, 'You can sharpen an axe with the top of his head!' Metaphorical, 'he's very stubborn!'  
  Clint snorted. “You're one to talk. Hell, we're all a bunch of stubborn assholes.”  
  Tony cheered, lifting his glass. “I'll drink to that!” Everyone took a drink.  
Bucky had started telling a story, but he was partly turned away, and Clint didn't feel like reading that much. So he just watched Bucky's profile, grinning at his wild gesticulations and huge smile.  
  It was nice seeing Bucky smile.

 

  Later, Bucky flopped down beside him. They sat silently on the couch for a while, mostly just observing the rest of the team getting steadily more drunk. They'd both switched to water, but still had a nice buzz. Clint glanced over at Bucky, gaze dropping to Bucky's lips again. He did it even when Bucky wasn't talking to him. This time Bucky caught his gaze and smirked. Clint flushed, looking away.  
  Bucky took a deep breath. “Might be makin' a fool of myself, but… I'd like to step out with you.”  
  Did that mean what Clint hoped it meant? “Date?” Clint was pretty sure his voice had gone up at least an octave.  
  Bucky nodded.  
  “I'd. I'd like that.” He hesitated. Early on, the Soldier had struck him as sexless, but that had changed as Bucky's personality had started to come to the front. “Do you want sex?” He blurted, then clapped a hand over his mouth, regretting the phrasing immediately. “Aww, alcohol, no,” he muttered. At least he was just a little buzzed. This conversation would be even more of a nightmare if he were completely smashed.  
  A broad smile slowly spread across Bucky's face. He stared straight at Clint. “Well, I keep imaginin' you on your knees for me, those gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock. Do you like the sound of that?”  
  A horribly complex mix of emotions warred in Clint's head. Clint struggled with them long enough that Bucky's hopeful smile started to break apart into devastation. “No, wait, that's not a rejection.” Oh god why had he been drinking. Alcohol was a terrible idea, and he was too fuzzy to be completely coherent right now. He was going to fuck this up and make Bucky sad, he just knew it. And then Steve would be sad, and the weight of Captain America’s disapproval would kill him. “...I like you, a lot, but I'm kinda fucked up.” He winced. Maybe not the best phrasing, but it would have to do.  
Bucky snorted. “Worked that out already.”  
  “Yeah, but. Has anyone talked about Loki?”  
  “Thor's brother. Tried to invade earth.”  
  “Yeah. He, he had mind control. Took me over. I worked for him, killed for him, kneeled for him. So kneeling's... not so good these days.” He was trying to deal with it, had made a lot of progress, but the kneeling part had fallen by the wayside with all the other crap his psychologist wanted him to 'come to terms with'. “I'd like to, but I can't yet.” That was all Clint could manage to say, but Bucky nodded like it had been a more thorough explanation.  
  “Sooo...” Bucky drew out the word, grin back on his face. “You're saying the cocksucking part is a possibility?”  
  Clint snorted. “Only if you buy me dinner first, Barnes; what do you think I am, easy?”  
  They both cracked up at that.  
  Clint sobered after a moment. “There's something else, though. Um. Have you ever heard of BDSM? No, scratch that, have you ever heard of dominance and submission?”  
  Bucky tilted his head. “Know the words, but that's all.”  
  “There's a sex thing. Well, not for some people, but in my case, it's a sex thing. One partner agrees to give up their power, the other agrees to take more control. I used to…” He took a deep breath. “Before Loki, I used to like submitting. You're the only person I've wanted like that since the mind control.” It was harder now, trusting a Dom enough to give up control, to stay down. Clint licked his lips, afraid to look up to see how Bucky was taking this. He stole a quick glance. Bucky looked pretty neutral. Not excited, but at least not disgusted either. “I like you, and I trust you. I think I could stay down for you. If you're interested.”  
  “Maybe. Not going to give you anything more solid till I do some research.”  
  Clint nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Great! That's… thank you for considering this.” He paused. “...Can we be done talking now? Please?”  
  “Sure.” Bucky turned back to face the front of the couch, and tugged Clint over to lie against his side.  
  Clint was surprised—Bucky was so picky about physical contact—but he figured if Bucky initiated it, it was fine. He relaxed against his boyfriend. (Boyfriend! He had a boyfriend! Today was _awesome._ )

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Bucky frowned at the web page. Apparently 'dominance and submission' covered a lot of ground. He was going to have to talk to Clint about this. Bucky made a face. The most stressful kind of communication, joy.  
  He found the archer in the communal kitchen, making pancakes. He checked his watch, confirming that he had not lost time, and that it was indeed 2210 local time.  
  “Hey! You want pancakes?”  
  Bucky shrugged. “Why not.”  
  “There's syrup, jam, and jelly in the fridge. I mostly eat 'em with peanut butter or Nutella, these days.” Clint demonstrated, spreading peanut butter over a pancake, folding it in half, and cramming an astonishing volume into his mouth in one bite. His cheeks bulged as he chewed.  
Bucky couldn't recall what he liked, so he elected to try a variety; blackberry jam on one, peanut butter on one, and Nutella on the third. He approved of all three. Peanut butter likely provided optimal nutrition, but he liked the sweetness of the Nutella and the jam. He was finishing up his food when he finally worked up the nerve to say something. “So. About sex. What do you like.”  
  Clint inhaled sharply, choked, and started coughing. “Jesus,” he said, eyes watering. “You don't fuck around conversationally, do you?”  
  Bucky shrugged. “What, you never had anyone tell you that if you couldn't talk about sex, you shouldn't be having it?”  
  “...Okay, yes, but to be fair, this is the first time anyone's ever asked me about specifics over pancakes.”  
  There was a pause.  
  “And?” Bucky prompted finally.  
  “Patience, jeez. Um. I like bondage, either cuffs or rope. Being held down or pinned against something. Collars are good. Blindfolds… I like them, but they're tricky for me, with the hearing issues. We might get there, but not immediately. I like being full, opened up around a cock or a dildo. And it may sound weird, but I like being hand-fed?” He took a deep breath. “I like… I like making my Dom happy. Being useful, or pleasing. So anything from, like, cockwarming, to giving you massages, to just sitting with you so that you can touch me whenever you want.” Clint hesitated then, chewing on his lower lip. “I… did anything about sadism come up in your research? Causing pain?”  
  Bucky nodded. “Is that something you want?” He wasn't sure about that. He'd done enough damage in his life.  
“I like flogging. And… it's a lot more dangerous, so no pressure, but I really like knifeplay.” He'd only indulged in the kink a few times in his life; it was hard to find a trustworthy Dom who was also good enough with a knife that they wouldn't do unintended damage. People with that skillset didn't usually come anywhere close to being considered 'trustworthy'.  
  Bucky's eyebrows shot up. “You'd trust the Winter Soldier near you with a knife?”  
  Clint met his gaze, defiant. “I'd trust _you_.”  
  Bucky sighed. “The binding, hand-feeding, and all that, I can do. I can't imagine you not makin' me happy, pleasing me won't be a problem. But I don't know about the sadism part. I've been working on _not_ hurting people every time I feel the impulse; I don't want to fuck that up.”  
  Clint nodded. “Yeah, I get that. It's definitely something I can live without; I just wanted to be clear up front about what I like.” He cocked his head. “Though sadism is a different impulse than what you've been feeling, I'd guess. You've mostly talked about trying to deal with your anger appropriately, and it's… really not safe to bring anger into a scene.” He'd learned that the hard way, and had the scars to prove it.  
  “What's it supposed to be like, then?”  
  Clint started to say something, and stopped. “Well, that's really not my area,” he said finally. “The explanation that made the most sense to me was that my submission gives the Dom a sense of power and control, and that restraining or hurting me reinforces that. If a sub trusts you enough to let you hurt them, it's a good feeling, I guess. Solid proof of their trust.” He shrugged. “Keep in mind, we don't have to try anything you're not comfortable with. Or if you want to experiment, we can do that, too. I won't be upset if you want to try something once, and decide it's not for you.”  
  “I'll think about it. Thank you for talking to me about this.” Bucky left abruptly. That was all the discussion he could tolerate for one day.  
  The way Clint looked at him… Bucky could barely see anything but a murderer when he looked in a mirror. How the hell did Clint, who saw clearest of all of them, see someone worthy of trusting?  
  Bucky wasn't sure what to think anymore. But then, that was an improvement over being told what to think, so hey, small steps.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Bucky's hand (the non-metal one) was around his throat. Not tight, just a light pressure, but Clint could feel his pulse beating against Bucky's thumb. He swallowed, tipping his head back a fraction.  
  “You like this,” Bucky murmured.  
  Clint couldn't tell if it was a question or not, since Bucky still tended to flatten the end of some of his sentences. “Yes,” he confirmed, then hesitated over forms of address. “...Sir?”  
  Bucky's thumb stroked gently downwards. “Bucky is fine. You don't need to call me sir.”  
  Clint nodded, pressing into the touch.  
  “I want to fuck you,” Bucky murmured. “Don't want to do anything too major, other than that, this time.”  
  “Yes please.”  
  Bucky leaned in, pressing his lips to Clint's. The hand on Clint's throat slid around, cupping the back of Clint's head.

  “I want to see you. Undress for me?”  
  Clint gave brief thought to attempting a striptease, but figured he'd just fall on his face if he tried. So he stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his pants and boxers. Usually this was the point where he felt crushing self-consciousness about his scars, but for once his partner had him beat. Of course, the usual anxiety about his appearance was immediately replaced by performance anxiety. Bucky had never done this before. What if he hated it? What if he hated Clint?  
  Bucky interrupted the panicky direction his thoughts were taking. “Come on. Come to bed, gorgeous.”  
  Clint offered a thin smile. “You don't have to lay it on that thick, I'm a sure thing.”  
  “What?”  
  “I'm scarred all over, my nose has been broken so many times it's pretty much flat, and I'm fucked in the head. That's a long way from gorgeous.”  
  Bucky sighed. “You are, though. Your biceps are stunning, your smile is amazing, and your ass ain't too shabby, either. On top of that, you're funny. You're sweet, especially in small gestures that somehow make everything better when I'm having a bad day. You may be fucked in the head, but so am I, and it's more helpful than I can say to be able to talk to someone about it.” He snorted. “Plus, your scars are nothing next to mine. But trust me, I'm not kidding or exaggerating when I say you're gorgeous.”  
  Clint wasn't sure what to say to that, so he stepped close and kissed Bucky.  
  Bucky's arms wrapped around him, pulling Clint's body flush against his own.  
  Clint shifted a little and groaned. His cock was pressed against Bucky’s denim-clad thigh, the friction right on the edge of discomfort.  
  Bucky chuckled. “I can tell you like that.” He shifted his leg, rubbing gently. “Want to move this to the bed?”  
  “Please.”  
  Bucky’s arms slid down Clint’s back, grabbing his ass briefly before stepping back. “Lay down, on your back.”  
  Clint hopped up on the bed, watching Bucky. Bucky stripped off his pants with a little shimmy. Clint licked his lips, entranced by the slow reveal of skin. Bucky stepped out of his underwear to reveal, wow, a really nice cock. Clint wondered if that was a normal thing to comment on, two seconds after he blurted it out.  
  Bucky smirked at him. “Glad you think so. I’m fond of it, myself.” His smile faded as he pulled off his shirt, eyes flicking to Clint and then away.  
  Clint suspected this was Bucky’s anxious moment over his own scars, so he let out a wolf whistle, startling another smile out of Bucky.

  Bucky detoured past the nightstand, grabbing lube and a condom. Anticipation made something in Clint’s stomach clench.  
  “You said you’re flexible, can you tuck your knees up? I want to be able to watch your face while I fuck you.”  
  Clint grinned, easily folding himself in half so that his knees were up by his shoulders. “I can.”  
  “Gorgeous.”  
  “Will you hold onto the headboard?”  
  Clint glanced up. It was a metal lattice, with alternating vertical uprights and crossed Xs. He grabbed two of the angled bottom struts. He looked back at Bucky and startled. While he’d been looking away, Bucky had crept closer. He knelt close to Clint’s ass, offering a wicked smile.  
  He popped the cap on the bottle of lube, slicking the fingers of his right hand. “Ready?”  
  “Please.” Clint rolled his hips, begging silently.  
  Bucky rubbed gently across his anus, teasing little circles. He pressed in gently with a finger, probing deeper a little at a time until Clint’s body yielded enough for him to add a second.  
  Clint’s grip tightened on the headboard. He groaned, feeling Bucky’s fingers stroke delicately across his prostate. He arched, trying to get more stimulation. “Please, Bucky. Fuck me, please.”  
  “Patience.”  
  He pulled his fingers free. Bucky wiped his hand, trying to open the condom package with still-slick fingers. He finally managed to tear the foil, only to have the corner tear free in his hand. Bucky stared at it.  
  Clint started laughing. “Want me to open that for you?”  
  “Please.” Bucky handed it over, still glaring at the package as though it had personally betrayed him.

  Clint let go of the headboard briefly to open it and hand it back. He grabbed the bars, rolling his hips. Bucky was frozen, watching him move. Clint grinned. “Gonna fuck me, or just stare?”  
  “Dunno, that’s a real nice picture.” But Bucky rushed to roll on the condom. That part, at least, he managed without problems. Bucky slicked the outside of the condom with lube, the pressure on his cock making his breath stutter in his throat.  
  He pressed against Clint’s ass, taking a deep breath as he pushed in.  
  Clint groaned, head tipping back. His hands clenched on the bars. Bucky’s cock slid inside him, filling him up just right.  
  Bucky started to fuck him, short, even strokes nudging his prostate. Each thrust sent a little zing of sensation firing along Clint’s nerves. Clint wrapped his legs around Bucky, pulling him close.  
  Bucky bit his lip, trying to think of unpleasant things to make himself last longer, but to no avail. He did manage to avoid collapsing on Clint when he came, at least, despite his wobbly joints. Clint whined when he pulled out, carefully gripping the base of the condom.  
  “You can let go. Jerk yourself off, want to see what you like.”  
  Clint met his gaze for the first stroke, but then his eyes fluttered shut.  
  Bucky kept looking from Clint’s cock to his face, not sure where to focus. He managed to watch Clint’s hand for two long strokes, with a little twist near the head of his cock. He really did want to see what Clint liked, but watching the pleasure on Clint’s face was a stronger draw. Clint came with a little groan that should not be as endearing as it was, splattering cum across his belly. 

  Clint opened his eyes slowly. He looked surprised to see Bucky staring at his face. “Thought you wanted to see what I liked.”  
  “I did. Then I saw something I liked better.” Bucky leaned in and stole a kiss.  
  Clint snorted, shoving him playfully. “You never said you were a sappy dork.”  
  Bucky shrugged. “Your sappy dork.” And with that rejoinder, he got up to dispose of the condom and grab a washcloth. 

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Their one attempt at flogging had been a miserable failure. Bucky couldn't stand the sound, dropping the flog and jumping back like a startled deer a second after the hit.  
  “Sorry.”  
  Clint shrugged, stepping away from the wall and turning around. “I told you, it's fine. I don't need it.” He tugged Bucky close, the touch of warm metal oddly reassuring. Bucky shuddered, leaning into the touch. He slowly lifted his arms to hug Clint, and buried his face against Clint's shoulder with a shudder. Clint rubbed his back, hoping that the motion was reassuring.  
  There was a muffled rush of words against Clint's shoulder. “Huh?”  
  Bucky straightened. “I still want to try knifeplay.” His jaw was a stubborn line.  
  “You're sure?”  
  Bucky just gave him a _look_.  
  “Just checking!” Clint considered that. If it was just the noise that bothered Bucky, knifeplay might work. He had some concerns, but they could work that out before they tried anything.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  “I've been working on kneeling.” He could do it alone, and imagining kneeling for Bucky sparked arousal, rather than panic. “I'd like to try that next time. Maybe?”  
  Bucky's grin was wicked. “I'd love to.”

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  So far, Bucky had been setting up scenes separate from sex. It was a reasonable precaution, but it was also really damned frustrating for Clint. The contrast of his nudity against Bucky's black jeans and button-down just increased his arousal. Clint squirmed, hips twisting.  
  “Stay still.” Bucky reminded him. Bucky was three-quarters of the way through tying a harness on him. It was fairly simple, only complicated by Bucky's use of some slightly fancier knots. Clint couldn't tell from his angle exactly what they were--Carrick knots, maybe?--but they were pretty, and the extra care made him feel treasured.  
  The karada harness itself was straightforward. A folded rope was knotted every four inches or so, the bight dangling near his ass and the free tails over his shoulders. The fancy knots resumed at his collarbone and continued down the front of his body. Bucky had just finished the frustrating part, a knot above and below his penis that stoked his arousal every time he shifted. The rope ran from there between his legs, over the plug in his ass, through the bight, and back. Now Bucky was doing the work of weaving the remaining rope through the knotted sections, the tension pulling the rope into lovely diamond shapes. But every time the ropes shifted, Clint had to hold back a moan.  
  “You can make noise, you know.” Bucky said conversationally, fingers working near Clint's pecs before he moved behind Clint again. “You don't have to be quiet.” His voice was loud enough that Clint could understand him.  
  Clint whined at that. “You mean moans or words?” he managed finally. He barely managed coherence at the best of times. While he was enticingly bound, every twitch teasing his cock and plugged ass, he was even _less_ coherent. “Not good at words, Bucky.”  
  Bucky lifted his chin with a finger, smirking. “Either. You need anything before I bind your arms?”  
  “No, Bucky.”  
  “Arms behind you, elbows bent, forearms parallel.”  
  Clint obeyed. He was flexible, it wouldn't be a hard position to maintain for a while. He let his eyes close, feeling the pressure as Bucky wove what felt like a long, back-and-forth series of wraps. Either it didn't take long, or Clint was floaty enough to be losing track of time, it was hard to tell.  
There was a soft jingle, and Bucky was back in front of him, running a finger down his cheek. “Look at me. Give me a color, Clint.”  
  “Green, Bucky.”  
  “Good.” Bucky's voice went hard. “Kneel.”  
  Clint dropped, without thinking and without hesitation, then yelped as the rope rubbed at sensitive skin.  
  “Good boy. Color?”  
  “Green.” Clint felt a surge of pride, that he could kneel for his Dom, that Loki hadn't taken everything from him. His eyes locked on Bucky's uncut cock, hard and tempting. “Please, Bucky, please, let me taste you.”  
  Bucky stroked himself. Clint licked his lips, watching a bead of moisture appear at the tip of Bucky's cock. “You want to suck my cock, huh?”  
“Please.”  
  Bucky bent down, pressing a metal ball into his hand. “You need to safeword, you drop this. I'm going to fuck your throat. Understand?”  
  “Yes, Bucky.” Clint opened his mouth.  
  A second later Bucky's cock was inside it. Bucky grabbed his hair, tugging his head back so he could thrust down Clint's throat. Clint took short, gasping breaths every time Bucky pulled back.  
  “That's it,” Bucky said softly, words coming out in staccato bursts. “Good boy. Swallowing me, so well. Your throat's, fuckin' made, for this, isn't it? Perfect.”  
  Clint whined, hips jerking.  
  Bucky shifted to shorter strokes, moving faster but not pressing as far down Clint's throat. “Take this so well. No coming yet, you come when I say and not before.” His fingers tightened, pulling Clint's hair.  
  Clint groaned.  
  Bucky bit back a groan of his own. “Gonna come— swallow it.” Clint swallowed as Bucky came, regretting that he only got a hint of the taste. “Good. Lick me clean.”  
  Clint did as he was told, flushing a little when he licked under the foreskin. Doing it made him feel deliciously dirty.  
  “Good. Tell me what you want.”  
  “Want you to fuck me.” Clint blurted, then winced. “I want to come.”  
  Bucky laughed. “Just realized how long it'll take to get you loose, hmm?” He petted Clint's hair, regretting that he'd chosen a plug instead of a vibrator. “Be patient, and I'll fuck you.”  
  Clint whined, head thudding against Bucky's hip.

  It took Bucky far less time to undo Clint's harness than it had to bind him. Bucky left the arm bindings intact. There was a brief interlude while he checked Clint's circulation and grip strength, then he grabbed Clint's upper arm and manhandled him towards the bed. “Knees and shoulders on the bed, ass up.”  
  Bucky watched Clint crawl to the center of the bed. He undressed efficiently, not willing to waste any time that would delay the introduction of his cock to Clint's ass. And it was a really amazing ass, especially at from this particular angle.  
  Clint had spread his legs without prompting.  
  “Well, this is a lovely image.”  
  Clint whined, spreading his knees a half-inch further apart.  
  “That desperate, hmm? Plug isn't enough for you, you want me to open you up with my cock.”  
  “Please, Bucky.” Clint turned his head a little farther, watching him approach. “Please, need you to fuck me.”  
  Bucky crawled onto the bed, settling himself comfortably. He wanted to draw things out, at least for a bit longer. He tapped experimentally on the base of the plug, getting a twitch from Clint. He switched hands, drumming faster with the metal fingers. That got a jerk and a whine.  
  “ _Please._ ” Clint's voice was ragged.  
  Bucky reconsidered his plans. He wanted this to be fun, and Clint sounded genuinely desperate. He grabbed the plug with his right hand, removing it gently and setting it aside. He added more lube with the same hand; he wanted to get as much sensation as he could from having his fingers inside Clint, and the prosthetic just wasn't as good at that. Clint was hot and slick inside, and what little patience he had abruptly vaporized. He rolled on a condom as quick as he could. “Ready?”  
  “Yes, god, past ready.”  
  There was a little hitch in Clint's breathing as he pressed in. Despite the plug, Clint still felt tight around his cock. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Opening up for me so well.” Bucky considered for a second, just pausing while Clint got used to his cock. He grabbed the convenient handle of Clint's bound arms with his right, and laid his left hand flat against Clint's upper back. That way he could press down, but the significant distraction of actually fucking Clint wouldn't risk making his hand spasm shut. Consensual injury was one thing, but he didn't want to hurt Clint because he didn't take the time to think.  
  Bucky was brought back to the moment by the feeling of Clint clenching around his cock, silently begging for more. He started thrusting, and groaned at the feeling. Bucky used Clint's arms to pull him farther onto Bucky's cock. As Bucky withdrew, he used his weight on Clint's back to press him deeper into the mattress. It didn't take long for them to get a rhythm going. As Bucky had suspected (hoped?), Clint was talkative when he was getting fucked, begging and pleading and complimenting with endless babble, half-muffled by his position.  
  Clint couldn't speak clearly with his face partly buried in the mattress. He couldn't hold or brace himself, could only lie there and take it. Bucky was fucking him hard, but neither of them was going to last long.  
  “Going to come,” Bucky growled. “You're close, aren't you? Want me to touch you?”  
  “Yes, Bucky,” Clint begged. “Touch me, please. Make me come.”  
  It only took an embarrassing four strokes before Clint was coming, clenching around Bucky.  
  That was enough to make Bucky come with a grunt. He dropped part of his weight on Clint's back, suddenly exhausted. He wanted to collapse atop Clint and sleep for several hours, but he had to untie Clint first. “Ugh.” He levered himself upright, pulling out carefully. After quick condom disposal, he peered at the knots. “This is why people separate bondage and fucking, isn't it?”  
  “So ya don' hafta stay 'wake? Yeah.” Clint's voice was slurred and partly muffled by pillow. He flopped his head to the side, staring at Bucky. “Cuffs. Leather cuffs 're good. Soft. Unclip, and all good to sleep.”  
  “You know what, fuck it.” Bucky grabbed the shears, cutting just below the knot. It was beautiful, but entirely too fancy, and in retrospect should have included a quick release. The arm binding came undone neatly after that.  
  Bucky turned down the covers on the free half of the bed, using the lure of a sports drink to get Clint over to that half. While Clint was drinking, Bucky carefully covered him up and slid in next to him.  
  “You're an absurd cuddlebug, you know that?”  
  “Shh. Soviet secret. Go to sleep.”

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Clint gripped the bar above his head. Bucky kept turning to look at him, stealing quick glances that made Clint want to preen. He worked hard to stay in good enough shape to keep up with the team, and for one of the enhanced humans to look at him like that… well. He was now significantly more than half-hard.  
  He watched Bucky sterilize the knife. It was a stainless drop-point knife, and he'd watched Bucky sharpen the edge only days earlier. It would easily slice a sheet of paper, a hair… or skin. Just the thought that the blade would soon be used on him… Clint's breath was already coming faster.

  “Are you ready?”  
  Clint glanced back at the emergency kit, carefully open for quick access. He'd checked his hearing aids, bathed, and scrubbed with a disinfectant. He wanted this. “Yes, Bucky.”  
  “Close your eyes.”  
  Clint obeyed, lifting his chin. Bucky wouldn't do anything near his throat—they'd talked about that—but he liked showing his throat.  
  “Good boy.” Cold metal touched the outside of his thigh a moment later, moving in a smooth arc to the front of his leg. Was it the dull side of the blade? He thought it was, but he couldn't tell with the cold metal. “You trust me so much.” The touch vanished, only to reappear on Clint's hip. “You have such faith that I won't hurt you.”  
  While the blade was against his skin, another cold touch brushed against his right hip. A quick breath hissed through Clint's teeth as he fought his instinct to flinch. That touch grew in pressure, but it wasn't until the metal fingers wrapped around the curve of his hip that he realized it was Bucky's free hand. “Jeez, Bucky, what did you do, dip your hand in ice?”  
  “Cold water.” The fingers squeezed, reminding Clint how easily he could be bruised, marked in a way that would take weeks to fade. But before the pressure got that strong, Bucky eased off and let go.  
  Clint exhaled slowly, trying not to be disappointed.  
  Bucky chuckled. “Patience.” The flat of the blade pressed against his ribcage. “I promise, I'll mark you before we're done.”  
  “Please.”  
  Bucky experimented, testing to see what direction Clint's largely-suppressed flinch reflexes took him. He was mostly teasing with the flat and back of the blade, not willing to use the edge until he had a better idea of how Clint reacted.

  Clint needed to move a little, to get a firmer grip on the bar. “Okay to change my grip?”  
  Clint could feel the rush of air as Bucky stepped back. “Okay.”  
  He rolled his shoulders and grabbed the bar again, grip at a slightly different angle. “Done.”

  Bucky's metal hand settled on his hip again. The pressure of the knife resumed on Clint's pecs. The pressure seemed finer now, a pinpoint of almost-pain moving across his skin. Bucky was drawing patterns, it felt like. A perfect crosshatch of lines on the upper half of each pec, and little diamonds down the left side of his ribcage and up his thigh.  
  When he started on Clint's hip, Bucky moved. The breath on his left thigh made Clint sure that Bucky was kneeling.  
  “Going to grab your leg. Don't move.”  
  The metal hand (thankfully cool now, instead of icy) grabbed his inner thigh. Bucky waited a second, and then the sharp scratch came again. There was an edge of pain this time, instead of near-pain, and Clint was almost certain that Bucky was drawing blood as he etched a vertical line down Clint's hip.  
  “Please,” he murmured. “Please, Bucky, mark me.”  
  “I am. Marking you as mine.”  
  Two shorter lines, angled. Two more, at right angles to those.  
  “It's a B.” Clint finally realized, foggy brain registering the design. Shit, that was hot. His arousal had died down a little over the long session, but that was enough to bring it back to a blaze.  
  “You like that, huh?” Bucky's voice was rough.  
  “Yeah. Can I look, Bucky? Please?”  
  “Open your eyes. Look at me.”  
  Clint looked down.  
  Jesus.  
  A red stylized B blazed on his hip. Barnes stared up at Clint, head only inches from both the mark and Clint's cock, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated. Clint suddenly realized there had been a staggering oversight in their kink discussion. “Please, Bucky, I want to come.” he begged.  
  “You want me to suck your cock? Make you come for me?”  
  Every breath teased his erection. “Yes, please!” His hands tightened on the bar so he wouldn't move.  
  Both of Bucky's hands grabbed his hips. Clint didn't know where the knife had gone, and couldn't spare the brainpower to care once Bucky's lips wrapped around his cock. It took everything he had to keep from thrusting into his Dom's hot mouth.  
  Bucky did something with his tongue, swirling around the head of Clint's cock, and Clint whined. His grip on the bar tightened. “Please, please please please.”  
  Bucky took him deeper. All it took was a hum and another swipe of Bucky's tongue, and Clint was coming. His knees went wobbly, but he stayed upright by clinging to the bar.  
  “Good boy.” Bucky laid a kiss at the crease of his hip, on the opposite side as the mark. “Stay there for just a second, I want to cover that before we go to bed.” He was back in seconds with antibiotic ointment and a self-stick gauze pad, carefully doctoring the injury. He checked the rest of the marks on Clint's torso, already turning into welts. There was a drop of blood on each of two or three spots, and he covered those in ointment as well. “Okay, you can let go.”  
  Clint let his arms down slowly, rolling his shoulders and swinging his arms a little, checking for any tightness. He felt okay, though. His head still felt floaty, and there was a faint lingering sting from some of the places Bucky had cut through the top layers of skin, but those would fade. “Bed?”  
  “Yes, bed, come on.” Bucky chivvied him to the bed, offering him juice and little bites of cheese. Clint removed his hearing aids, fumbling to put them in the recharger. It wasn't long before Clint was dozing, barely aware of Bucky snuggling up behind him and wrapping them both in a nest of blankets.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  After the fantastic scene, it was a real letdown when Clint woke around 2am, heart racing. He slipped out of bed, turning on a soft light and checking his eyes in the bathroom mirror. No blue. He was fine, Loki was gone, there was no blue in his eyes.  
  “You okay?” Bucky appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.  
  “Fine.” Clint's throat felt hoarse, and he winced. He cleared his throat. “Nightmare.”  
  “Ah. You think you can fall asleep again?” Bucky accompanied his words with some of the basic ASL he'd picked up, so JARVIS wouldn't have to translate. [You think sleep again?]  
  Clint took a deep breath. His heart rate had already slowed, and it felt like the edge of panic was dissipating, but he still felt like he needed to move. “Later, probably, but I'm still antsy. I think I'm going to the gym and jog for a while.”  
  Bucky nodded. Clint leaned in for a quick kiss on the way back to the bedroom to fetch workout pants. “Want me to wake you when I come back?”  
  Bucky considered. “If you come back to bed, no. If you don't think you can sleep, yes.” He couldn't remember 'if', so his ASL was a little rougher [you sleep, no, you not-sleep, yes], but Bucky was pretty sure he got the point across.  
  Clint nodded and headed out.

  Bucky sighed as he headed back to bed. He wondered if they'd always alternate nightmares. So far, it had been only one of them a night, thankfully. Clint had long-established coping strategies (the mirror, breathing exercises, jogging, walking around the room and touching things to ground himself in the present) that Bucky was still trying out, with mixed success.  
  Bucky really didn't have any consistent routine for handling the aftermath of panic or nightmares. He'd worked out that sitting in the corner shaking wasn't effective (big surprise), but finding what did work was harder. Breathing exercises helped. And, though he hadn't admitted it yet, Clint's voice helped dramatically to ground him in the present. And, on a much more entertaining note, wearing himself out with amazing sex seemed to be a great nightmare deterrent.

 

  Clint was jogging steadily around the track, letting the predictable staccato of his feet soothe him. The nightmares were getting less frequent, but they still happened more often than he was happy with. Bucky's presence helped, though. Bucky hadn't been around for Loki or the aftermath, so just being around made him a solid anchor to the present.  
  Plus, he didn't have to explain how it felt to be brainwashed and used for killing. As much as it sucked that Bucky had gone through that, it was really nice having someone who understood.

  The lights strobed once, and Clint slowed. That was JARVIS' signal that someone was entering the room. He was surprised to see Steve in the doorway, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Don't have my ears in,” he called, continuing to jog.  
  Steve nodded, then went wide-eyed when he got close. Steve stepped onto the track, holding up a hand to stop him. “Are you okay?” That was easy enough to read, at least.  
  “Yeah. Fine, just had a nightmare. Why?”  
  Steve just pointed.  
  Clint looked down, suddenly realizing that while he'd thrown on pants out of habit, he hadn't grabbed a shirt when he came downstairs. His torso had welted up _beautifully_. “Um.” He scratched his head. “It's a sex thing?”  
  Steve didn't have an aneurysm, thankfully; Clint would have hated to admit that he'd killed Captain America by making him aware of kinky sex practices. “Uh. Right.” There was an awkward pause. “Let's jog?” There was an air of desperation to his question.  
  Clint grinned at him and nodded, taking off down the track. He figured Steve would either go to JARVIS or Bucky with questions, but either way, he wouldn't have to deal with it. Thank fuck.

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Clint ran a finger over the thin scab on his hip. Most of it had fallen away, cleanly healed already, but Clint found himself wishing that it would scar.  
  The thought made him pause. Did he really? He wasn't sure this relationship would be permanent, would he really be okay with wearing Bucky's mark for the rest of his life, even if this ended?  
  Yes, he had to admit. It wasn't like his skin was pristine; he'd been scarred by many people he'd much rather forget, most of them people he'd killed. It'd be nice to have a scar with pleasant connotations, for once, instead of being related to various violent and bloody missions. Even if things went bad, Clint was pretty sure he wouldn't mind the reminder of better times.

  “I want your mark,” he told Bucky the next day. “This, but permanent. If you're okay with that.”  
  Bucky considered that. “To make sure it scars right, I'll have to take some skin, instead of just etching lines. There'll be a lot more pain. And blood, which you said isn't really your thing.”  
  “I know. I won't watch.” He shrugged. “Plus, lidocaine spray is a thing. If it hurts too much, I'll say yellow, and we can pause to give it a spritz.” He hesitated. “You're okay with the idea, though? I know you were so reluctant to do anything that hurt...”  
  Bucky shook his head. “I think it'll be fine. I've seen how much you like it. And seeing you stand there with no restraints while I hurt you… that means a lot.”

 

>>>──♥───>

 

  Thor contemplated the scar. “I like it. It's rather fitting,” Thor said thoughtfully. “Perhaps more than you know.”  
  “Huh?”  
  “I assume this is meant as a lover's token?” Clint nodded. “But the style of letter, it looks much like Berkano, the rune. Among other things, it's a symbol of rebirth. And,” he grinned. “of the coming of spring after winter.”  
  “Oh.” That really was terrifyingly apt, as a symbol of Bucky. “Um. What about a C?” He drew one in the air, angular like an arrowhead.  
  “Kano, the torch. For illumination, both of vision and of understanding. But also for regeneration, creation and destruction.”  
  “Oh,” Clint exhaled. Vision and clarity and destruction. Oh, it fit him well. He wanted to see that on Bucky's skin, mark and message in one. It wouldn't, couldn't happen; Bucky couldn't stand knives on his skin. But Clint could dream.

 

  When Clint passed on what Thor had said, Bucky was silent for a long time. “I can't let you near me with a knife,” he said finally.  
  Clint winced. He hadn't meant it that way. “I know, and I'd never ask for that. I just thought it was interesting.”  
  “But you could...” Bucky reached up, grabbing his metal bicep with his right hand, where the star used to be on the old arm. “Here. If you wanted. Engraving, or, or paint. Maybe both.”  
  “Really? You'd let me do that?” It had taken months of discussion and negotiation before Bucky had let Tony do more than scan his prosthetic, and months more before Bucky had accepted the new prosthetic Tony had designed. For Bucky to offer this, out of the blue, was stunning.  
  Bucky met his gaze. “I trust you.”

 

  It took two weeks of sketching and back-and-forth before they'd decided on a design they both liked. The main issue arose when Clint went down to talk to Tony about borrowing something to etch the metal.  
  “No can do.”  
  Clint blinked at him. “What? Did you take apart the engraver during a fit of engineering?” It happened sometimes; they'd come to the common areas only to find one of the appliances eviscerated. Sometimes he did it for a part, sometimes because he wanted to make the appliance work better and got sidetracked, but either way the result was a non-functional appliance.  
  Tony snorted, running his fingers through his hair and leaving greasy streaks. “No, birdbrain. The arm had to be light, because the old one was damaging his spine from the weight. And it had to be strong enough to compare to the old one. The internal skeleton is vibranium, and the plates are a steel-vibranium alloy. A conventional engraver won't do shit.”  
  “Oh.” Clint wondered how he'd tell Bucky that this wasn't happening. He could still paint it on, but that wouldn't have the same sense of permanence.  
  “Dude, stop looking like you lost your puppy. I've got a laser engraver, which will work on vibranium, you just can't use the laser engraver on a plate while it's attached. I'll get you the spare plates I made. And this isn't something that's done freehand, you'll need to work with the computer. JARVIS, walk him through the engraver operations.”  
  “Certainly, sir.”  
  The tension in Clint's shoulders released. He'd dreaded breaking his promise. He wanted this to be perfect, something new to replace the red star.  
  With JARVIS' help, Clint etched the half-dozen bicep plates, and filled the etched area with rich purple paint. He was pleased with the final result, when he put them together; the angular < looked a bit like his initial, a bit like the rune Thor had talked about, and a bit like fletching. It was perfect. He just hoped Bucky liked it.

  Bucky ran his right hand over the plates, a hopeful little smile on his face. “Change it out for me?” He turned so that his left arm was easily accessible.  
  Clint nodded, hoping he remembered the procedure to swap them all. He'd gone over it in the workshop at least two dozen times, but this was for real. He didn't want to fuck up.  
  He found the three points to press, and Bucky flexed part of the forearm, making the access panels angle up slightly. Removing panels for replacement was a painstaking, precise process, but it wasn't difficult.  
  It took about twenty minutes before Clint was done. “There.” He pressed the last access panel back into place.  
  Bucky ran his fingers over the faint ridge where the etching started. “Thank you.”  
  Clint couldn't help the sappy smile. “I love you.” His eyes went wide and he slapped a hand across his mouth, nearly stabbing himself in the cheek with a screwdriver.  
  Bucky snorted, grabbing his hand and gently prying the screwdriver out of Clint's fingers. “You trust me with a knife on your skin, you think I didn't know that already? I love you too. Idiot.”  
  “Oh.” Clint blinked at him. “ _Oh._ ” Clint had been so focused on the way he trusted Bucky, that he'd completely overlooked the way he loved Bucky.  
  Bucky grinned at him. “Yeah, _oh._ Let's go to bed, I feel celebratory sex is in order.”  
  Clint jumped up, almost knocking over the chair in his haste. “Yes please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moments of writing-adjacent hilarity:
> 
> Me: I'm not sure how much porn I should include...  
> Friend: Yes
> 
> Text to Friend, regarding the "really nice cock" line: I decided when I added the comment "idk if I want to try describing the platonic ideal cock" that it was time for immediate sleep.
> 
> Comment on draft: "This may be the funniest, most endearingly awkward sex ever committed to text. Which is perfect for these dorks, at least."


	2. Research Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I figured I'd share, in case anyone was interested. Let me know if you do or don't like the inclusion of notes.

Modern longbows do have at least a [200 meter range ](http://history.stackexchange.com/questions/8022/how-far-could-an-english-war-bow-shoot)(some say up to 300m), per sources cited here, so I’m comfortable claiming Hawkeye can manage 200 yards with his fancy SHIELD bow, despite that being over three times what a pretty good bow hunter might attempt. 

The historical sniper range being typically under 200 yards is disputed, but is from various sources linked in [this arfcom thread](https://www.ar15.com/archive/topic.html?b=1&f=5&t=376472).

Per [imfdb.com](http://www.imfdb.com), Bucky uses a 1941 Johnson and 1903 Springfield in the first Captain America movie, and Clint passes up a Remington 700 of some sort for his bow in the first Thor movie. The rest of the rifle discussion is sourced heavily from friends and from [here](http://www.militaryfactory.com/smallarms/ww2-sniper-rifles.asp).

The description of the range they visit is based on [Central Jersey Rifle & Pistol Club](http://www.cjrpc.org/index.cfm?wpid=15). As far as I could find, it really is one of the only ranges in the state to have a 200yd range, let alone a 300 yard! Plus, it's a private club, so I figured they'd be more likely to agree to let Clint use his bow on what's ostensibly a rifle range.

There are several popular archery breathing techniques, which are described simply [here](http://www.ammoland.com/2016/06/three-archery-breathing-techniques/#axzz4Ii1fuxVY).

You can watch a video of a 1903 Springfield (sans scope) [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mbaO7qLzS8).

The BBQ joint is based on [Big Ed’s BBQ, in Old Bridge, NJ](https://www.yelp.com/biz/big-eds-bbq-old-bridge-2). 

I first encountered the Russian idiom [here](http://blog.ted.com/40-idioms-that-cant-be-translated-literally/). I later found a second translation as 'Even if you whittled a spike on his head' from [this site](https://www.lonweb.org/links/russian/lang/023.htm). Since I only know about a dozen words of the language, I don't know how accurate either translation is; if you care to weigh in, please comment!

Sodomy arrests made up 7% of sex-related arrests in NYC in the late 30s, per [here](http://www.glapn.org/sodomylaws/sensibilities/new_york.htm). Not sure what percentage of overall arrests that is, but they certainly wouldn’t be unheard of.  
For the things about the area where Steve and Bucky grew up, and how close it was to gay bars, there is a fantastic blog entry [here](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html).  
On the popularity of gay clubs in the late 20s and early 30s, [this specific article](http://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/November-2005/The-Gay-30S/) mostly talks about Chicago, but the same thing was happening in New York.  
The term 'Queer' was first used in writing around 1932, while 'Gay' was used in this context around 1935. “Temperamental” was one of the few terms of the 30s-40s that isn't still in use, either in general (‘gay’, ‘queer’) or a slur (‘fairy’, ‘fag’). 

I was completely unable to determine the origin of the phrase “if you can't talk about sex, you shouldn't be having it”. I really hope it's something he could have heard before the war, because the thought of someone having to give post-Winter-Soldier Bucky the sex talk is hilariously horrifying.

Stark / Avengers tower is located where the MetLife building is in reality. The subway line route the boys took looks great on paper (though I don't know exactly where Clint's apartment building is, from the Fraction comics), but I have never been to NYC. The C, F, 4, and 3 trains all look fine on paper if you're willing to walk the remaining distance to the tower. Thus, if you have a better route, please let me know and I'll correct it.

Per [here](http://www.theagencyluxe.com/avengers-tower/), the top floors of Avengers Tower are around 140' x 57', or 7980 sq ft per floor. (aka 4x the size of my entire childhood home) Now, with 7980 sq ft per floor, allowing 780 sq ft for an entryway, living room, kitchen, common areas, etc., dividing each floor still allows for six 1200 sq ft apartments, each with their own really nice 2 bed, 2 bath with kitchen and living room in each. As cool as it sounds to have a whole floor for each of them, I don't think they'd interact much if that were the case.  
Initial housing arrangements: Tony, Pepper, [Landing pad, suit storage]; Natasha, Clint, Bruce; Thor, Steve, Bucky.

The Karada shibari harness described (though without the fancy knots) is a cross between the one pictured [here](http://www.symtoys.com/ideas_bondharness1.html) (female nudity, NSFW) and [this one](http://gnomeofmaille.deviantart.com/art/Cross-Knot-Karada-140661088) (ropework on a dummy, no nudity). I was picturing the basic design from the first one, and fancier knots somewhat like the latter. (Though the cross knots wouldn’t work with the other harness style, I pictured a Carrick knot.)

According to [this source](http://www.cirp.org/library/statistics/USA/), ~31% of men born in 1932 were circumsized. We don't have reliable data earlier than that, as far as I can find, but since it was trending upward at that point, and Barnes was born on 3/10/1917 (Steve on 7/4/20), odds are good that he wasn't circumsized. There's more about the history [here](http://www.historyofcircumcision.net/index.php?option=com_content&task=category&sectionid=8&id=73), which also notes that WWI soldiers were circumcised as adults, because the US govt thought it would decrease STD rates, and they then went on to circumsize their sons, so they wouldn't need it done in adulthood. 

My descriptions of Clint's BTEs are based on the idea that he has something like the [Siemens Motion hearing aids](https://usa.bestsoundtechnology.com/siemens-hearing-products/behind-the-ear-hearing-aids/motion/), and a similar recharging system: 

For scenes depicting Clint's hearing issues, I tried to drop the sounds l, ng, m, v, f, th, and s based on [this page](http://www.starkey.com/blog/2015/09/sounds-missed). I'm guessing that dropping sounds for mild hearing loss would approximate moderate frequency-specific hearing loss corrected with hearing aids, but I'm not certain. About his hearing loss - my headcanon for this fic is that, yes, Clint lost some of his hearing in the crash that killed his parents. It’s apparently [not as uncommon as you might think](http://www.tinnitus-audiology.com/head_injury.html), and can lead to specific ranges of lost frequencies. 

My ASL is very very basic, and has all been picked up from [Lifeprint.com](http://www.lifeprint.com/index.htm) (so amazing, I can't recommend them enough). When I use caps for ASL, I'm not attempting gloss, that's just me listing the signs. Some of the things I tried to keep in mind about HoH Clint Barton are [here](http://original-recipe-winnafish.tumblr.com/post/94564876557/tips-on-how-to-realistically-write-deaf-clint).

[This site](http://www.weather.gov/okx/CentralParkHistorical) helped me figure out what NYC’s weather would be like during a given month.

There is actually science showing that people with joint pain [can detect](https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/05/080530174619.htm) the barometric pressure changes that precede a storm. Your elderly relatives aren’t kidding. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading.  
> If you've any specific critiques (or noticed any spelling errors), please comment!


End file.
